Writing for Fun
March 2016
Fish Tales – A Story in 3 Acts - Vivian Burdon
Millie's tears were already drying. The salt tightening her rosy cheeks. She hadn't wiped her eyes, instead her hands had lied. They had continued to twirl her wand, while a small place in her chest was growing cold and hard like the pebbles at her feet.
Aware she was being watched, Millie stuck her wand in her belt and crouched down. She reached out to collect the dying, and one by one brought a large stone down on the gasping fish. The sticky scales and blood coated her hands. She placed the fish carefully in a pile and added those already belly up and dead. The mud was still wet in the centre of the pond but the drying out had begun. Cracks had appeared around the edges.
When the last fish was gathered in, Millie turned towards the house. Her mum was fussing with Martin's blazer as he struggled to keep his sister in view. Finally, son dispatched, she turned her attention to her daughter. She started, her little blond angel had transformed into a demented doll. The small ashen face was smeared with fish scales and snot, her hair matted with slime from the pond. As if a switch had been flipped, incomprehensible wailing erupted from the once demure little girl. As her mum drew near she screamed, 'Martin's killed my fish. He's taken the water away and killed my fish.'
Millie's mum was visibly shocked at the carnage that had replaced the little pond. She folded Millie into her body hushing her. 'Come now Millie, hush, hush. I know, I know,' she cooed. 'Those poor little fishes. But darling, Martin wouldn't have done this.' Millie fiercely kept up her accusations.
'Now Millie look at me . . . you can't keep blaming your brother for things. It looks to me like the lining has got old and thin and that's when they leak. It happens, little one.' Millie's sobs were deep and breathtaking. 'I know you're sad. It's a terrible mess, but we can make it better again.' Her mum cuddled her, she was doing her best, she was always doing her best since Daddy had gone.
Millie struggled free as her temper rose again and she yelled at her Mum, 'But the pond had a rock bottom, Mummy, Daddy made it so, and he told me. He said it would keep the water extra safe for my fishes and newts and tadpoles and water skaters and, and . . .' Millie stopped, drained once again of her rage. Her hands flapped desolately at the ruined wildlife haven her dad had created for her while he was dying. She could hear him, smell him, his face close to hers where they crouched together 'It's just for you, Millie, I will always be here with you, in the fishes and the tadpoles, always.'
'Martin did do it,' she whispered coldly as her mum carried her into the house.
Miss Peters, fully versed in the trauma of the morning, had agreed to allow Millie to read quietly in the Bean Bag Corner. Her mum had fussed, 'I would keep her at home what with her dad and everything, but I need to go to work. They've been very good but, well you know, I just can't . . .' Miss Peters had shooed the fraught women out of the door telling her not to worry. She had then kindly led Millie to the book shelves to choose something special. Millie knew just what she wanted. The tatty copy of Matilda had seen better days, but she knew every crease and every line of that wonderful book.
She picked the blue bean bag, the one that had nursed her sorrow when Daddy had died. She settled herself and did the big breath thing they had taught her to ease that hurt in her chest. He came softly then, letting himself into the last bit of her hardening heart. Showing her . . . look, there she was holding his cap ready for the mushrooms he was picking. Saturday morning walks to 'give mum a bit of peace' naming the birds and the flowers in the woods. Martin off somewhere as usual playing football or at the red rec. with his silly friends. But daddy was with her, always with her.
Saturdays with Daddy. She choked back a sob and opened her book. She must concentrate, learn and plan. Taking a crayon from her pencil case Millie wrote in her new notepad, 'What would Matilda do?' Chewing the end she flicked the pages of the book, expertly seeking that bit where Matilda had glued her brother's hair. Carefully next to a large 'One', she put 'glued hair'. She spent the morning mining Matilda's rich vein of revenge and her list grew.
After dinnertime, when Mrs Peters had made her go out for 'some fresh air', Millie returned to the blue bean bag. She picked another colour crayon from her pencil case and wrote on a new page. 'What have I learnt?' Carefully in big letters she wrote, 'Matilda does tricks on people when they do something bad to her.' She screwed up her face. She then wrote her brother's name 'Martin' in big scored letters. Underneath she started another list. 'Number 1. Make him look stupid', 'Number 2. Make him hurt.' She paused, it wasn't enough for what he'd done. Slowly she picked out her red crayon and wrote 'Number 3. Kill him.'
The headmistress had asked if Miss Peters would come to her office. She knocked and entered on command. Sitting across the oak desk from the headmistress was a policeman, helmet removed and held on his knee with one hand, the other hand holding a ridiculously dainty tea cup and saucer. 'Come in, come in, don't fuss girl, sit here.' She was coaxed into the hallowed throne usually reserved for the headmistress. 'Now, Miss Peters, tell this policeman what you know about Millie Marsden.'
The policeman coughed and looked around for a safe place to put his cup and saucer. In the absence of any clues he reached down and put it on the floor along with his helmet. Returning upright he removed a small notebook and pen from his breast pocket and coughed again. 'He was too young to be doing this,' thought Miss Peters. Something so dreadful and they have sent a young boy. What could he possibly know about families, about children, about loss.
It turned out he was very good at what he had been sent to do. Calmly and reassuringly he illuminated his knowledge of the tragic events with an understanding of the little girl's behaviour, he documented the loss and grief she had suffered, the gradual change in demeanour from inquisitive and playful to withdrawn and peevish. And finally the child's little notebook. Was it right to give it up. Was there a confidentiality code like the one between doctors and patients. In the end she had reluctantly handed it over. 'What will happen now?' Miss Peters asked at the door.
'Hard to say Ma-am.' The policeman looked sad. 'The first thing is to get the mother to withdraw her 'confession'. As for little Millie, she will need a great deal of care. The system isn't really geared up for murder by someone as young as this.'
Miss Peters closed the door slowly behind her and padded down the corridor in her sensible shoes. Her head hurt at the thought she could have done more. She had known that family was unravelling. She had a friend who'd taught Martin and knew about his obsession with tormenting his little sister. Her friend seemed to think it was his way of assuaging his own grief. She sighed as she pushed open her classroom door. She was hit by that cacophony only small children can make when they smell weakness in a teacher. Miss Peters clapped her hands and put her finger to her lips. The room fell silent. 'If only life was always as simple as that,' she thought.